


With Grasping Hands And Open Mouths

by RocksCanFly



Series: RocksCanFly's As-Of-Yet-Un-Named Sniper/Demo Series [3]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Bondage, Knifeplay, M/M, Mick Mundy Is Not A Very Sane Man, Obsessive Behavior, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Table Sex, Tavish Degroot Is Also Not A Very Sane Man, This surprises no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: You were born starving. Not just hungry, but ravenous, chest aching and empty and desperate to be filled with life, with laughter and skin.So it comes as no surprise then, not really, when you find yourself trying to consume Tavish.(“Mick, lad, come on,” he pants, straining down. “Please,” he continues, drunk on pleasure, on your touch.  “This ain’t fair, Mick, please.”)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going through a bit of writers block, so I dug up a story I'd mostly finished, slapped on about a thousand words or so of finished touches, and wha-fucking-lah. 
> 
> Please don't mistake Mick and Tavish's relationship as healthy. It's definitely, definitely *not*.

You were born starving. Not in the typical sense, no. But you've never just been hungry, not like your classmates with their bombast and chest hair and mustaches. You are so much more than _hungry_ for life, for all the messy things that come with it.

Hungry people share. That's not something you've ever been good at doing.

So it comes as no surprise then, not really, when you find yourself trying to consume Tavish.

You eat up his time, pulling him out of the relative civilization of the base and into the dust of the desert. You feed him hare haunches with your fingers and steal nips from his scrumpy while you lie out under the stars. On your days off you pack him into your camper and pull him out to lakes and wide stretches of empty desert.

On one memorable occasion you settled him into the dirt next to you, shoved your rifle into his steady grip and tried to teach him how to shoot a real gun. He missed every one of the empty beer bottled you'd set up a hundred meters off.

It wasn't until then that you realized just how much he had to compensate for his lack of depth perception. It's the first time you ever saw his missing eye as anything but a part of his appearance, as natural to him as his curly hair or full lips.

Later, after the New Years where you accidentally sent the both of you to respawn while trying to pin him to a nonexistent wall in Tuefort, you began to eat at him in other ways.

You took to pulling him  into corners after missions or meetings and wiping him clean of others with your tongue down his throat and your hand twisted in his lamb's wool hair. If you'd been possessive and grabby before, it was nothing compare to how you are now that he's really _yours_.

You can't go an hour without touching him, whether it's a hand on the back of his neck or wrapped firmly around his waist or your feet up in his lap or his head tucked under your chin. A hard feat, considering you've only got a bare three inches on the man, but you're willing to stretch for it.

You're an ever present ghost at his side, dozing quietly in a corner while he and the boys play poker, cleaning your gun in his work shed while he makes his bombs. You find your eye straying to him in battle and you finally realize you've got a problem.

You're hungry enough for the bloke that your professionalism is suffering.

It's a problem. It ain't _healthy_ , not for either of you.  
  
You don't do a bloody thing to change it, and as long as he's not complaining you damned well aint gonna _stop_.  
  
That’s the crux of the thing: he doesn't just _let_ you eat him up. The crazy blighted bastard _welcomes_ it with open arms, leaning into your possessive touches like a pet gettin it's ears scratched.

He's so good to you, your Tavish. He's loud and bold and a right nutter, but at the end of the fight he lets you scoop him up and devour him whole.

* * *

It's the night after another cyclic battle with BLU and you've cornered him in his work shed. He's wearing that bloody kilt his ma sent him, the one that shows off his lean calves and thick, muscled thighs. It's hiked up right now, the red tartan framing his dark skin prettier than a picture.

You leave bite marks on his inner thighs, rationing his salt-sweet skin out in increments as you near your prize.

You'd started with his sweet mouth, catching him in a kiss as you'd manhandled him into his workshop. You'd had to suffer watching him from a distance all day, forced to tear your eyes away from the flashes of sweet skin that appeared as he sticky jumped his way across the battlefield. Once the match had ended you'd stalked him back to the shed, catching him up in a possessive kiss soon as he'd unlocked the door.

You'd begun with him loosely pinned to it, your crotch pressed up against that firm, round ass. He'd turned in your grasp to meet you, arms flinging up to encircle your neck while your hands drifted down his back to grab a good handful of that pretty backside.

Stumbling through the door, you'd steered him towards his high workbench, nudging him up on it. It's tall enough that his sitting height matches your standing, a fact you take advantage of when you draw his legs up to hook over your shoulders. He's forced to lean back, settle down on his forearms and watch you with one lust clouded eye as you peel away his boots and socks. Ravenous, you'd worked your mouth down from well turned ankles to firm calves to scarred kneecaps and up steel corded thighs.

You reached the top, your chest stretching out between the vee of his thighs. You gave him a sharp nip on one hip. He groaned, his hips surging up to your mouth, begging for the scrape of your teeth, the sweet white hot of pain. Then you'd dragged rough nails down his thighs, scouring the skin and eliciting a ragged gasp, chasing those hot lines of sensation with your mouth.

And now you're lathing soothing licks and sweet kisses on the inside of his thigh, gentling him into compliance before you get to the vee, where all you can smell his his musk and you bite him, worry bruises into dark flesh, mark him here where no one else will see it but he'll feel it. Leave them high and low so he doesn't wear that kilt tomorrow, because you love the view but you hate it, _hate_ it when you see their eyes on him, the appreciative glance of Spy and Medic as they eye what's _yours_.

He gasps softly, a wounded sound, and you pet him gently, rubbing rough palms up his skin soothingly, stroke his flanks beneath the thick wool of his sweater.

Struggling up, he peels your vest back from your shoulders. You let it drop to the floor, careless as you urge his own sweater up, over his head, baring his heated skin to the cold workshop air.

You reach his cock, resettle his legs so they're hooked over your shoulders, his thick thighs spread wide, wide, _wide_.

Then you're on him, lips tight and slick around him, tongue lathing messily on his hot flesh, working under his head at that small, sensitive spot as he gasps and whimpers. He curls inwards towards you, those powerful, sculpted abs wrenching up, flexing as he bends to meet you. He intertwines one hand in your hair, pulling rough and desperate as he makes needy little noises, sets a warm, satisfying fire in your gut.

You catch his free hand in one of yours, pin it to the table at his side. With your other you pet at his flank, soothing his heavy breathing.

Your mouth remains busy at work until you feel his thighs tensing. Then you pull off, to his cry of displeasure, push him back, pin his back to the table.

You pin his throat in place with one hand, give it a warning squeeze that he thrills up into. Pleased, you scour down his abs with your nails, pinch his nipple roughly, pulling them in sequence.

"Be good or I'll tie you," you rumble, grinning wolf-sharp.

He shrugs leisurely, crosses one ankle over the other, casual and far too relaxed for a man pinned naked to a table by his neck. "That doesn't sound all that bad," he boasts, flexing luxuriously. "A few wee knots--careful, love, I think you're gettin soft."

You finger the hank of rope looped around your belt-loop, stroking your thumb over the smooth hemp. "You asked for this."

He grins at you, bending his neck to nuzzle at your wrist, kisses the scarred skin of your forearm. He looks up at you with his one golden eye, warm and trusting. "So do it, love."  
  
Your chest tightens, something like joy soaring high, pushing your heart out painfully against your ribs like a bird railing against its cage. He’s perfect, and you know you’ll never find another like him, anyone who fits you so well.

You’d do _anything_ to keep him, and that terrifies you almost as much as it excites you.

You grin back at him, releasing him to undo the rope from around your belt. He stays relaxed and loose limbed, crosses his wrists in front of himself in familiar anticipation.

You pull the rope smoothly from it's daisychain, run it through your callused hands to warm it, soften the treated fibers. Your grasps his wrists, bind them tight enough that he can struggle, knot it off so it doesn’t pull tighter when he yanks. It wouldn’t do to have his hands drop dead, re-spawn or no.

After binding his hands you wrench his arms up over his head, securing the rope to the metal bench. The muscles of his chest sharpen in relief against his dark skin, scar tissue gleaming dark pink in the low light of the work shed. You take your time time looking at him, stalking around him like a predator, come in an caress him slowly. You luxuriate in the needy press of his flesh up into your palm, the way he arches into you, hungry for your touch.

You step in between his spread legs, pull your kukri from its sheath on your belt. He eyes the dulled edge of the knife, pushes his thighs wider in invitation.

You drag it's dull edge down the line of his hip, leave warm lines across his skin. He shivers, breath gone still in his chest. His eyes fluttered close, head tilting back as he basks in the sensation, the sweet-hot not-quite pain of it. You love him like this, love to watch him shake apart beneath you, helpless and loving it.

You lean in, kiss him sweetly, all tongue and no teeth. Then you dig in with the blade, just shy of breaking his skin, and drag the blade down to his inner thighs, teasing icy-hot trails of fire along his softest bits.

He groans into your mouth, one long leg wrapping around your hip, urging you into him with his heel in the small of your back. You grin, working a criss-cross of lines into his skin, worrying his lower lip between your teeth.

You work him with the knife until his thighs tremble, then you lay it aside on the bench. You replace your left hand on his neck, squeezing lightly, and bury your right hand between his spread thighs, scratching along his thighs with your blunt nails.

You tease his cock with your callused palm, work him up and down roughly until he’s whimpering beneath you. It his reward reward him for being good for you, for all his pretty cries and the way he spreads his thighs to let you in, opening to you. You pump him till you feel the tightening of his tendons, the tensing of his stomach. You slip your thumb beneath the head of his cock, roll it under his foreskin, drag the hand on his neck in a punishing line down his chest, trailing lines of fire.

He cries out as he finishes in your hand and you swallow the sound, cradling his mouth up to yours. You work him through it gently, smearing his own cum down around his cock, stroking his cheek gently with the other hand. Let him gasp against your mouth, ragged and broken.

As his breathing calms you pull him forward on the bench, get his hips canted up towards you on the table. You kiss butterfly soft down his chest to his cock and clean him off, sucking gently at his abused flesh, trailing down to the skin behind his balls.

He groans, helpless, when you rub hard at his perineum with your thumbs, massaging his prostate from the outside until he's squirming, trying to push down into you, to get more pressure, more friction, _more_.

Its then that he begs for you. “Mick, lad, come on,” he pants, straining down. You grin into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, suck marks into his skin as his hips rock uselessly. You rub the scruff of your cheek against his oversensitive cock, chuckle when he shudders.

“Please,” he continues, drunk on pleasure, on your touch, all his stubborn pride spent with his first orgasm. “Ae’ want ye here,” he whines, heel digging into your back as he tries to urge you back up his chest, to his waiting mouth, his soft lips. “Ae’ want ye _here_. Damn it, Mundy, I need you _closer_ , I need you on me.”

You dig in again with your thumbs, pressing up on his prostate from the outside, and his voice jumps an octave, his thigh threatens to crush the breath from your chest. “This ain’t _fair_ , Mick, **_please_**.”

So you leave, get lube from your vest, and he's shaking when you get back, panicking. He hates to lose sight of you in these moments, to lose contact and be left vulnerable in the open air.

You shush him, crowding into into his space, press your chest to his and wrap an arm around his waist, pull him into you. He hitches his legs around you and presses up, brings his mouth to yours and kisses you like you're breath, like you're whiskey and air and all he needs. You rub a warm palm on his back, soothing circles, and bring the other hand down to press into him.

He takes you with a whine, rocks down onto your fingers slowly, unhurried. He moans lowly, plump lips like sweet, ripe fruit against yours, wet and shining.  
  
You prep him till he's hot and slick and giving, then you untie his wrists do he can cling, helpless to your shoulders as you push into him. He opens hot and tight around you, and he nudges down to meet you, gives a broken little cry that you swallow when you bottom out, when the tops of your thighs meet the swell of his ass. His legs are tight around your waist, they threaten to squeeze the breath from you and he's trembling and sweating and he mouths helplessly against you, fingers digging short nails into your back and he's so lovely so perfect so _yours_.

When the two of you finish he still clings to you limply, hands twined behind your neck, pressing your face into the hot, sweaty hollow of his throat. You breath him in, the musk of him feel his warm skin, the hot breath in your ear as his breathing decrescendos to a low, lazy rasp.

You don’t know what will happen if anyone tries to take him from you, not really. If anyone tries to make you share his warmth, his precious vulnerabilities, the husky timbre of his private laughter.

But you know it won’t be pretty. Because you were born starving, a lean, rangy animal of a man. And it's only in his arms--in these soft, sweet moments--that the ravenous cavern in your chest has ever felt _full_.

And you would do _unimaginable_ things to keep it that way.


End file.
